ROBERT SERVICE

 Robert Service, Elle Andra-Warner

A short and enlightening biography of the Canadian writer Robert Service.  Best known as the poet who wrote The cremation of Sam McGee and The Shooting of Dan McGraw, but in fact he published numerous books of ballads (poems) as well as novels (three made in to movies).

Here is a short synopsis of his life

·        Born in Scotland, rebellious attitude gets him kicked out of school

·        Finds a way to get to college and his attitude blocks success there too

·        Leaves for Canada and a real beginning.  Here he works as a swineherder, sheepherder, cattle wrangler, carpenter, and ultimately a bank clerk

·        Makes it west to Vancouver and Vitoria, then down to San Francisco and Los Angeles where he lives life as hobo and odd-job man

·        Back to Canada and bank jobs.  Success as a banker gets him transferred to Whitefish and Dawson.

·        Finds his voice in ballads and the stories of the Klondike

·        Books of poems sell so well he eventually lives off royalties

·        Has some adventures walking, canoeing, crossing the wild landscape from Edmonton to Klondike.

·        After success he marries and moves to France with his wife.  Buys property there and is caught up in WWI.  Publishes book of verses based on WWI.  Drives ambulance like Hemingway, John Dos Passos, etc…

·        Travels back to Canada, then to Hollywood where he writes novels, gets three books made in to movies and appears with John Wayne in small part in Seekers.

·        Leaves family in LA and spends two months in Tahiti by himself

·        Gets bad health report and redoes his life and diet and devotes himself to being healthy

·        Travels back and forth through into Russia and Germany and becomes disillusioned with the politics and actions of both.  Almost trapped in Poland at start of WWII

·        Has to abandon home in France during WWII – returns to Canada and LA

·        Returns to France after war and dies there.

I learned about the man and his inspirations.  For example – hearing a surgeon tell about having to cremate a body of a man he could not save and could not bring back to civilization.  He also could not bury the body in the frozen ground so he found an old derelict boat and put the body in the boiler to cremate.  Service was a listener and remember stories and ideas from the characters he met throughout his life and then built around those vignettes to create a voice for the Yukon:

The Cremation of Sam McGee

by Robert W. Service

There are strange things done in the midnight sun By the men who moil for gold; The Arctic trails have their secret tales That would make your blood run cold; The Northern Lights have seen queer sights, But the queerest they ever did see Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge I cremated Sam McGee. Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee, Where the cotton blooms and blows. Why he left his home in the South to roam 'Round the Pole, God only knows. He was always cold, but the land of gold Seemed to hold him like a spell; Though he'd often say in his homely way That he'd "sooner live in hell". On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way Over the Dawson trail. Talk of your cold! through the parka's fold It stabbed like a driven nail. If our eyes we'd close, then the lashes froze Till sometimes we couldn't see; It wasn't much fun, but the only one To whimper was Sam McGee. And that very night, as we lay packed tight In our robes beneath the snow, And the dogs were fed, and the stars o'erhead Were dancing heel and toe, He turned to me, and "Cap," says he, "I'll cash in this trip, I guess; And if I do, I'm asking that you Won't refuse my last request." Well, he seemed so low that I couldn't say no; Then he says with a sort of moan: "It's the cursed cold, and it's got right hold Till I'm chilled clean through to the bone. Yet 'tain't being dead -- it's my awful dread Of the icy grave that pains; So I want you to swear that, foul or fair, You'll cremate my last remains." A pal's last need is a thing to heed, So I swore I would not fail; And we started on at the streak of dawn; But God! he looked ghastly pale. He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day Of his home in Tennessee; And before nightfall a corpse was all That was left of Sam McGee. There wasn't a breath in that land of death, And I hurried, horror-driven, With a corpse half hid that I couldn't get rid, Because of a promise given; It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say: "You may tax your brawn and brains, But you promised true, and it's up to you To cremate those last remains." Now a promise made is a debt unpaid, And the trail has its own stern code. In the days to come, though my lips were dumb, In my heart how I cursed that load. In the long, long night, by the lone firelight, While the huskies, round in a ring, Howled out their woes to the homeless snows -- O God! how I loathed the thing. And every day that quiet clay Seemed to heavy and heavier grow; And on I went, though the dogs were spent And the grub was getting low; The trail was bad, and I felt half mad, But I swore I would not give in; And I'd often sing to the hateful thing, And it hearkened with a grin. Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge, And a derelict there lay; It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice It was called the "Alice May". And I looked at it, and I thought a bit, And I looked at my frozen chum; Then "Here," said I, with a sudden cry, "Is my cre-ma-tor-eum." Some planks I tore from the cabin floor, And I lit the boiler fire; Some coal I found that was lying around, And I heaped the fuel higher; The flames just soared, and the furnace roared -- Such a blaze you seldom see; And I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal, And I stuffed in Sam McGee. Then I made a hike, for I didn't like To hear him sizzle so; And the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled, And the wind began to blow. It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled Down my cheeks, and I don't know why; And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak Went streaking down the sky. I do not know how long in the snow I wrestled with grisly fear; But the stars came out and they danced about Ere again I ventured near; I was sick with dread, but I bravely said: "I'll just take a peep inside. I guess he's cooked, and it's time I looked"; . . . Then the door I opened wide. And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm, In the heart of the furnace roar; And he wore a smile you could see a mile, And he said: "Please close that door. It's fine in here, but I greatly fear You'll let in the cold and storm -- Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee, It's the first time I've been warm." There are strange things done in the midnight sun By the men who moil for gold; The Arctic trails have their secret tales That would make your blood run cold; The Northern Lights have seen queer sights, But the queerest they ever did see Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge I cremated Sam McGee.